


Running Wild

by MimiWritesHerFandoms



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-01 15:39:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12707895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimiWritesHerFandoms/pseuds/MimiWritesHerFandoms
Summary: The rancher’s daughter and the ranchhand. Forbidden love. Is this the real thing or just a game to be won or lost?





	1. Slow Hands

He tasted like whiskey, the cheap kind, the good kind, the whiskey you could only get at the bar, whiskey your father would never,  _ ever _ , have in his home. His kisses were wet, sloppy, perfect, and his hands were rough and calloused as they slowly drifted up your side.

“We should take this back to my place,” you murmured. You were on fire, every inch of your skin burning with need for him, want and desire woven into every fiber of your being.

“Your father - “ he mumbled, hesitating for only a moment, long enough for you to hear the doubt in his voice.

“- is gone,” you finished. “Away. It would be just us. Come home with me, ‘cause I want you bad.”

He groaned, his lips on your neck, sucking, biting, marking you, one hand on your waist, the other beneath your shirt, cupping your breast. Your back arched and you pushed into his hand, your own fingers slipping into the waistband of his Levi’s, tugging him closer.

This corner of the bar was dark, really dark, buried in shadows, the jukebox only a few feet away, the beat of the song thumping in your head, pounding through your blood, filling your head with all kinds of ideas. You’d been thinking about this - him - all night. You wanted to be alone with him, in your bed, behind closed doors.

“There’s no chance I’m leaving here without you,” you whispered in his ear, your fingers dancing over his arousal, another biting groan leaving him. “I just wanna take my time. We could do this all night if you just take me home.”

His answer was to take your hand, his grip tight as he dragged you from the bar to his truck, parked in the corner of the dirt lot on the east side of the bar. He pressed you against the door, catching your lips in his his, his hands, his slow hands, once more moving over you, igniting the fire deep within you. You could barely breathe when he released you.

“Your place?” he asked, pulling the door open for you.

“M-my place,” you nodded.

* * *

**_Six Months Later_ **   


You watched your father and Steve from your seat on the veranda, your book propped on your lap, a glass of iced tea on the table in front of you. They were having a heated discussion; your father’s arms gesticulating wildly, his shouted words occasionally reaching your ears, while Steve stood with his arms crossed, his lips drawn together, the only outward sign that he was irritated. Dark glasses covered his eyes, though you were sure if you could see them, the blue orbs would be flashing in anger. 

“Just take care of it, Rogers,” your father shouted, before spinning on the heel of his Italian made loafers and stalking across the manicured lawn toward the entrance near the kitchen.

“What’s dad so pissed about?” your younger sister, Betty, asked.

“Language,” you mumbled absentmindedly.

Betty made a face and tossed her phone to the table. “I’m twenty-one, Y/N,” she groused. “I don’t have to watch my language.”

“You won’t think that if Daddy hears you,” you smirked.

“General Thaddeus Ross can kiss my ass,” Betty sighed, dropping into the chair across from you.

“Uh oh, what did he do now?” you asked, your full attention on your sister.

“Told me I can’t see Bruce anymore,” she shrugged. “He’s not good stock, Elizabeth.” Her impersonation of your father was spot on. “I wish he’d remember that we’re his daughters, not soldiers for him to command. Besides, he’s been out of the military for what, twenty years?”

“Since Grandpa died and left him this place,” you nodded. “Doesn’t change his attitude though. Once a military man, always a military man. Now he’s just a rich military man.” You sat up straighter, glancing at Steve walking toward the stables, his broad shoulders stiff, his gait sure and determined. “Daddy has certain...ideas about things and he’s stubborn. You know that.”

“Not as well as you do,” Betty said, giggling.

“You’re not wrong,” you sighed. 

Betty picked up her phone and just a second later, a song, ***that  _ song _ *** started playing, the song that always, always reminded you of *** _ him _ ***. You closed your eyes and let the memories of that first night roll over you, the feel of his hands on your body, his fingertips moving slowly over every inch of your skin, how badly you’d wanted him, how he’d made you feel things you’d never felt before, how perfectly the two of you had fit together, as if it was meant to be.

“Y/N? Y/N!” 

“S-sorry,” you mumbled. “Lost in my thoughts.”

Betty rolled her eyes. “What am I supposed to do about the general?”

“What makes you think I know how to deal with him?” you scoffed.

“I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve been around him longer?” she sighed.

“Doesn’t mean squat,” you laughed, rising to your feet. “He controls me just like he controls you.”

” _ Tries _  to control you!” Betty yelled after you.

You shook your head as you walked away. Your little sister had no idea.

* * *

Steve stalked toward the stables, hellbent on getting as far away from Thaddeus Ross as he could. That man had no idea how to run a ranch, he never had. You couldn’t run it like a military base, even though that was what he had tried to do for years. Steve had heard the stories from previous ranch foreman, heard how difficult Ross was to deal with, but that hadn’t stopped him when the job became available. The pay was good, phenomenal really, better than what any other foreman in the valley received. There was a reason for that.  


Once he was in the stable, he set to work feeding the horses, moving from stall to stall, letting himself get lost in his work, settling his mind. He was just coming out of the second to last stall when he heard his name. 

“Hey, Steve, what was all that about with Ross?” Scott, one of the other ranch hands, asked.

“Ross wants the corn and wheat fields harvested by the end of the week,” Steve replied.

“You’re joking, right?” Scott chuckled. 

“Unfortunately, no,” Steve shook his head.

“That’s not possible,” Scott said. “What the hell are we going to do?” 

“I don’t know,” Steve shrugged. “Call in everybody I can think of, I guess. Or say fuck it and quit.”

“Good luck, man,” Scott laughed. “You’re gonna need it.”

Steve grabbed the last bucket of feed, opened the gate to the last stall and stepped inside. 

“Hi,” she breathed, just inches away from him, making him jump.

“Christ, Y/N,” he growled, “you scared the shit out of me.” He set the bucket of oats in front of the chestnut mare in the stall.

“Sorry,” she grinned, pushing herself up on her toes, her hands on his waist, her lips barely brushing his.

“What are doing in here?” He tried to sound stern, but he failed. “I saw you on the porch a few minutes ago.”

“Wanted to see you,” she murmured.

“Your father was just down here.”

“And now he is in the house, probably getting an earful from Betty about her boyfriend. He didn’t even see me come down.” The hands on his waist slid around him as she stepped closer, her body flush against his. “You worry too much about my father.”

“Have you met the man, Y/N?” Steve sighed, leaning his forehead against hers. “If he sees you -”

“He won’t,” she replied. “I’ve gotten really good at this.”

Steve chuckled, cupped her chin in his hand, tilted her head back, and pressed a kiss to her mouth. What  he really wanted to do was throw her in the hay and take her, a plan she would have been one hundred percent on board with, but he held back by sheer force of will. She drove him crazy, made him crazy, made him throw all of his inhibitions out the window, including the one about staying away from the boss’s daughter.

“Stop that,” she laughed.

“Stop what?” he asked.

“Stop overthinking this,” she said, “stop overthinking us.” She wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him back to her lips, her tongue drifting over his, sliding into his mouth as she pushed into the kiss, her breasts pressed against his chest, her body warm, supple, soft to the touch. 

“Come to my room later,” she purred. “I’ll leave the doors unlocked.”

“Y/N,” he shook his head.

“Please?” she pleaded.

He couldn’t tell her no.

* * *

You’d been hiding in your room for hours, tired of listening to your father and Betty argue over, well, basically everything - her choice of schools, her choice of men, her choice of music, every choice she’d apparently ever made. When Betty had tried to drag you into the conversation, you’d turned on your heel and left the room, refusing to get involved.  


You couldn’t listen to Betty bitch about you and your wasted life, not again. You were everything Betty didn’t want to be, her shining example of what not to do. You, the daughter who came home after college to help run the multimillion dollar a year ranch, sleeping in your childhood room, following Daddy’s rules.

But not all of his rules.

You finished tucking the last corner of the clean bed sheet in, grabbed the blankets and pillows from the chair and tossed them back onto the bed. You crossed the room and threw the lock on your door, twisting the knob and tugging afterwards, just to make sure. You peeled off your jeans, kicking them aside so you could lie down, sighing as you sank into your bed’s inviting softness.

On the other side of the room, one of the double doors leading to the veranda opened and Steve slipped inside. He smiled at you as he crossed the room, his nimble fingers swiftly unbuttoning his long-sleeved shirt, leaving him in a plain white t-shirt and his low slung Levis. He kicked off his boots and then he was on you, pushing you backwards onto the bed, his hands, his slow hands, sliding beneath your shirt, pushing it up and off.

No, you definitely didn’t follow all of Daddy’s rules.


	2. At the Cowboy's Mercy

You straddled the man sleeping in your bed, tugging the oversized t-shirt you were wearing - his, of course - up around your waist as you leaned over him and pressed a kiss to the center of his back, right between his shoulder blades. He stirred, groaning, and looked over his shoulder at you.

“Hey,” Steve smiled. “What time is it?”

“Five-thirty,” you murmured.

“Noo,” he moaned, burying his face in the pillow.

You laughed and pushed your way beneath his arm, forcing him to roll to his side, so you could snuggle up beside him. His heavy hand fell to your waist, his knee pushing between your legs as he pulled you close, tucking your head beneath his chin.

You sighed and closed your eyes, pressed your cheek to his chest, his heart thumping in your ear. You could have stayed there forever. 

“I better go,” he whispered.

Before you could protest, he was gone, no longer in your bed, instead he was standing on the side of it, pulling on his jeans and his boots. He turned to you, a smirk on his face.

“I need my shirt,” he said.

You laughed, pushing yourself up so you could kneel in front of him, grabbed the hem of the t-shirt, and slowly pulled it over your head, holding it out to him with what you hoped was an innocent smile on your face.

Steve shook his head, his blue eyes flashing, and snatched the t-shirt from your hands. He yanked it over his head, tugging it into place, then he grabbed you, lifting you off the bed, his hands warm against your naked skin, pulling your legs around his waist, his hands on your ass, his mouth slanted over yours, kissing you as if he had no intention of leaving.

“Don’t go,” you murmured, running your fingers through his hair and kissing his jaw.

“You know I have to,” he sighed. “If your father finds me in here, he’ll kill me.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, your arms tightening around his neck. He wasn’t lying. One of the first rules of the Ross ranch was that the staff, the hired help, did not mingle socially with anyone in the Ross family. Thaddeus Ross took this rule so seriously that it was written into each employee’s contract - “social interaction with either of the Ross girls, Y/N and Elizabeth aka Betty, is strictly forbidden.” If anyone chose to violate the terms of that agreement, they would be fired. And getting fired from the Ross Ranch was a death sentence. Not only did the General fire the person, but he made sure their life was destroyed. He was a vindictive man.

Steve set you on your feet, kissed you one more time, then he was gone.

* * *

He hurried down the low hill leading to the side of the house, headed for the stables and his office. He would shower and change in there, use the spare set of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it since he’d started seeing Y/N.

If someone had told him a little over six months ago that he would be dating, and seriously in love with, his boss’s daughter, he would have laughed in their face. But, after a drunken one night stand and the best sex he’d ever had, fast forward six months, and here he was, in a position he’d never imagined himself in. The Ross girls were strictly off-limits, always had been. He’d known that when he started working at the Ross Ranch when he was sixteen. Nothing had changed. Except for his feelings for a certain Ross daughter.

A half an hour later, Steve was at his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand, going over paperwork, attempting to find some way to harvest more than one hundred acres in four days. It was making his head hurt.

“I recognize that face,” a familiar voice laughed from the open office door. “You’re trying to figure something out and it’s kicking your ass.”

“Clint? What the hell are you doing here?” Steve laughed, pushing himself out of his chair and stalking across the room, hand extended.

They met in the middle of the room, exchanging a handshake and a quick hug. Clint Barton was one of his closest and oldest friends. The two men had known each other for years, attending both high school and college together before returning to their hometown, each of them working for rival ranches.

“I’m here to take a look at that herd of cattle in your north pasture,” Clint said. “Rumlow’s thinking about buying a couple hundred head and I’m here to take a look at them.”

“I didn’t hear anything about that,” Steve mumbled, pulling his hat off and scratching his head.

“I think Brock and the General are conspiring to make it happen,” Clint shook his head. “Nothing is finalized, though. Bartholomew sent me over with Brock. That idiot knows nothing about cattle. I suspect he’s just doing this to get close to Y/N, anyway. He’s always had a thing for her. And Thaddeus seems to be pushing that pairing.”

“What?” Steve’s head snapped up.

“Yeah,” Clint shrugged. “I overheard Brock talking to his father about how General Ross thought that he and Y/N would make an amazing couple and combining the two ranches would make their families a powerhouse in the state.”

“Does Y/N know this?” Steve asked.

“I doubt it,” Clint laughed. “Anyway, thought I’d stop and say hello. It’s been a while.” He shook Steve’s hand again and disappeared out the door.

Steve leaned against his desk, the headache roaring between his ears. He shoved his hand in the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the tiny box he’d been carrying around for the last three weeks, waiting for the right moment. He flipped it open and stared at the modest sapphire and diamond engagement ring inside. The right moment better come soon.

* * *

“Daddy?” you yelled. You closed the door quietly behind yourself and propped your sunglasses on the top of your head. You crossed the room to your desk situated right in front of the large glass window overlooking the stables and the fields behind it. Your computer was on, which irritated you; you distinctly remembered turning it before you left. Your father had been snooping. Again.

“Daddy?” you shouted again.

“In my office” was his bellowed reply.

Your father’s office was at the back of the large guest house, in what had once been the master bedroom. After he’d taken over the ranch, he’d had the seldom used building converted into an office space, wanting to keep the inner workings of the ranch separate from the main house. Two of the bedrooms and the main living area had been converted to offices while one bedroom had been turned into a storage room lined with filing cabinets.

You headed for your father’s office, rounding the corner and running directly into Brock Rumlow. He caught you as you stumbled, one hand on your waist, the other gripping your upper arm. He smiled, his faces just inches from yours.

“Hey, Y/N, how are you?” The grin widened noticeably.

You sighed and disentangled yourself from Brock’s grip. “Hi, Brock,” you muttered. “What are you doing here?”

“Discussing business with your father,” he said. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

You rolled your eyes. You were pretty sure you knew more about the business than your father did. You definitely knew more than Brock did about the inner workings of a ranch. And Steve was the one who really ran the Ross Ranch, while you took care of the books. Your father was a figurehead, nothing more. The fact that he was discussing business with Brock was laughable at best.

“What sort of business?” you asked, immediately suspicious.

“I’m thinking of selling the Rumlows a couple hundred head of cattle,” your father explained. “Brock came by to look at them.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder, his grin one you’d seen before. You knew where this was going.

“Why don’t you head out with Brock to take a look at them?” Thaddeus suggested.

There it was. Your father had that glint in his eye, the one that told you he was scheming, plotting, most likely, to set you up with Brock. He’d had that same look when he’d convinced you to date Phil, when he’d gotten you to agree to come to work for the ranch, and when he’d encouraged you to move back home, that look that said he had a something up his sleeve, something that you probably weren’t going to like.

“I have work to do -” you argued.

“It can wait,” your father said. “I need you to go with Brock, look at those cattle. Maybe run it by Rogers, he knows the cattle better than either of us.”

You bit back the “no shit” on your lips, shot a glare at your father, and followed Brock from the office. You dropped your sunglasses in place, pushed past Brock, and stalked toward the stables, Rumlow hot on your heels, chattering in your ear, the scent of tobacco floating from the cigarette he’d lit as soon as you’d left the house. You barely heard anything he said; you were too busy fuming over your father’s interference in your life. He knew you didn’t need to “look at the cattle,” that was Steve’s responsibility, not yours. He was up to something.

“What do you say we grab some lunch later?” Brock said, his hand on your arm.

You stopped, his hand still on your arm, and took a step away from him. You hated this. Brock had always had a crush on you, ever since high school, when you’d both ended up attending the very expensive private school on the outskirts of town. He was nice enough, for a spoiled rich kid who wanted for nothing and whose father doted on him, but he wasn’t your type. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to understand that. He’d followed you around like a lost puppy for two years, repeatedly asking you out, not understanding that you didn’t reciprocate his feelings. You hadn’t seen him much after high school, both of you off to different colleges. Every now and then Brock would pop up, ask you out, you’d turn him down, life would resume. Hopefully, this was going to be another one of those times.

“I don’t think so, Brock,” you sighed.

Brock shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “Still playing hard to get?”

“I was never playing hard to get,” you snapped. “I’m not interested in dating you.”

“That’s not what your father says,” he said.

You carded your fingers through your hair, trying to quell the urge to pull it in frustration. “My father doesn’t know what I want. My father knows what  _ he _  wants, which is not the same thing. Daddy doesn’t get to decide who I date, who I love. As much as he’d like to.”

“We’ll see,” Brock shrugged. He spun on his heel and continued making his way toward the stables, flicking his still lit cigarette butt into the dirt. 

You clenched your fists and let out an irritated huff. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Steve coming out of the stables, walking with Clint Barton, the foreman from the Rumlow’s ranch. Brock turned their direction, calling Clint’s name. You stepped up the pace, arriving just a few seconds after Brock.

“Thanks, Clint,” Steve was saying, shaking his friends hand. “You don’t know how much I appreciate your help. It’ll still be tight, but we might make it.” He nodded your direction as you approached. “Ms. Ross, what brings you out this early? Looking to ride your favorite stallion?” He winked, making you blush. God damn Steve anyway.

“I-I guess I’m, uh, going to -” you stammered.

Brock put his hand in the middle of your back, a leering grin on his face. “She’s going with me to look at the cattle we might buy. Then we might grab some lunch.” His arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer.

Steve nodded, an odd look falling over his face. “I need to get back to work,” he said. “Ms. Ross, Mr. Rumlow, have a good afternoon. Clint, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Steve -” you stepped toward, him, Brock’s tight grip on your waist stopping you.

But Steve didn’t stop, he just disappeared back into the stables.


	3. Long, Hard Ride

 

You were out on the southernmost part of the property for the better part of two hours, discussing the cattle Brock and his father were interested in purchasing. You weren’t in complete agreement with the terms, and you told Brock as much, a concept he seemed to have a hard time grasping. He argued you with you all the way back to the main house, doing his best to convince you that it was in the best interest of everyone for you to sell almost the entirety of your herd to them.

“We could lose thousands and thousands of dollars, Brock,” you said. “I just don’t see how this is even a viable option for us. I need to discuss this with my father.”

Clint pulled to a stop in the drive in front of the house, your door open and your feet hitting the pavement before he’d even put the truck in park. Brock jumped out after you and followed you up the stairs to the front door, where you stopped. 

“What are you doing, Brock?”

“I thought we could discuss this, over lunch,” he replied, blowing smoke your direction. His chain smoking habit was getting on your nerves. 

“I don’t think so,” you shook your head. “We’ve discussed all we need to discuss. I’m going to talk to my father, try to make sense of this nonsense, then I’ll get back to you. Have a good day.” You opened the door and stepped inside.

You stalked through the house and out the back door, hurrying down the short path to the guest house. Your father wasn’t inside, not in his office, or answering his cell phone when you tried to call him. You sat at your computer, working your way through the numbers, trying to figure out your father’s logic, why he would even consider selling so many cattle for such a low price.  

An hour later, you shoved yourself away from your desk, your chair rolling several feet across the hardwood floor. Nothing was making sense, the numbers wouldn’t crunch, and you’d come to the conclusion that your father had lost his mind. You needed some air.

One of your favorite things about the stables was how quiet it was, the only sounds the gentle neighing of the horses, the quiet rustle of them moving in their stalls. You stopped outside Wild Blue’s stall, leaning on the door, waiting. It only took a second for him to notice you, a soft whinny leaving him as he put his head over the stall, nudging your hand.

“Hey, Blue,” you whispered, scratching beneath his chin. “How ya doing, buddy?”

“He’s missed you.” 

You jumped, your heart jackhammering in your chest. You rested your forehead against Blue’s broad face for a second before turning to the man standing beside you.

“I missed him,” you sighed. You weren’t talking about the horse, and you didn’t think Steve had been either.

“How was lunch?” Steve asked.

Even though you were pretty sure he was trying to hide it, you could hear the jealousy in Steve’s voice. You wished he understood that he had nothing to worry about, no need to be jealous, because your heart belonged to one man only. Of course, you’d never said the words, never let him know that it was him that you loved. That underlying fear of your father and what he would do to Steve was always there, always creeping around the back of your mind, dictating every step you took.

“I didn’t go to lunch,” you said, stepping away from Wild Blue to put your arms around Steve, your head on his chest. You inhaled, Steve’s familiar scent filling your nose, suddenly making you heady with desire.

“Yeah?” Steve murmured.

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling up at him. You plucked the hat from his head and ran your fingers through his hair, scratching at the shorts hairs on the back of his neck as you pulled him down to meet your lips. 

That was all it took to ignite the spark, a simple kiss. Steve’s arms locked around your waist and he was dragging you backwards into his office, slamming the door shut, drawing a few startled neighs from the horses in the stable. He pushed you against the door, impatient, greedy, his mouth slanted over yours, devouring you, his thigh between your legs, pressing against your warm core, his name a curse on your lips.

You fumbled with his belt, pulling his pants open, Steve groaning as your hand brushed his half-hard cock. He reached around you and locked the door, before picking you up and carrying you across the room to his desk, sitting you on the edge. He tugged at your shirt, his hands sliding beneath it to cup your breasts in his hands, his thumbs tracing your nipples through your thin lace bra. You moaned, your back arching into his hands, your head falling back as his lips drifted along the line of your throat. You pushed a hand between your bodies, past the waistband of his underwear, taking hold of his length, stroking him gently. His hips thrust in time with your movements as he impatiently pulled at your clothes, your shirt and bra effortlessly removed and tossed aside. He stepped away from you, his cerulean blue eyes flashing black with lust, his eyes never leaving yours as he pulled your boots off and dropped them to the floor. He worked you out of your jeans, both of you panting with lust by the time you were free of the tight denim. 

Steve pushed open your thighs, stepping between them, his hand between your legs, his fingers teasing you, opening you. You worked his jeans and underwear down past his ass, guiding him, hissing as he entered you, the burn of the stretch the perfect balance of pleasure and pain. You wrapped your arms around his waist, your hands on his ass, urging him to move.

It was all hands, lips, you and Steve, perfectly connected in the most intimate of ways, his body flush with yours, his mouth on yours, kissing you senseless, swallowing your moans as you climaxed, the orgasm exploding out of you, consuming you, a seemingly neverending moment in time that you didn’t want to end.

Unfortunately, it did, Steve’s own orgasm coming shortly after yours, his hips stuttering, his body tensing, blunt fingers digging into your hips as he came. When it was over, he rested his head on your shoulder, breathing raggedly.

The knock on the door startled you both, your hand hitting a box of paperclips, knocking them to the floor.

“Rogers? You in there?” Another sharp knock.

“Shit,” Steve swore under his breath, pushing himself away from you and yanking his pants up.

You jumped off the desk and scrambled to grab your clothes, then you ran for the bathroom, shutting the door just a few seconds before Steve opened the door to his office.

“General Ross,” you heard Steve say, “what can I do for you?”

* * *

Steve parked beside the stables, grabbed his coffee and climbed from his truck. He scrubbed a hand over his face and hurried inside. He was exhausted. Yesterday had been a bitch of a day, a rollercoaster of a day. After General Ross had almost caught him and Y/N, he and the General had argued, again, about harvesting the more than one hundred acres of wheat and corn in what was now less than three days. There was a tractor down, one he hadn’t had time to completely fix, though he’d stayed late the previous night trying. It was running, though he hadn’t done as thorough of a job as he would have liked. Clint had offered to help with harvest, bring a few of his men by, but even with the extra help, Steve didn’t think it was going to happen. Which could mean his job.

He was out in the fields as soon as the sun peeked over the horizon, along with as many ranch staff as he could pull in on such short notice, as well as Clint and the ranch hands he’d offered up to help. The only good thing about having so much to do in a small amount of time was that it made the time fly by. Although, the ever-rising sun made the temperature spike. Its angry rays beat down on the men, exhausting them much sooner than had the weather been a good twenty degrees cooler, but as usual, the weathermen didn’t have a clue as to what they were talking about. Maybe if Ross had waited a week or two, like Steve wanted, it might have been cooler, if only a few degrees. At this point, anything would be better than the stifling heat they were currently working under.  

Sweat was rolling down the back of Steve’s neck, along his spine, and settling into the top of his jeans, staining the shirt he was wearing. He dropped to the ground beside the tractor, stood tall and wiped a hand over his face, groaning as the muscles in his back, shoulders, and legs screamed in protest. He might have been in good shape, but there was a limit for everyone, and he had just about reached his. 

Brock was coming his way, one of his ever present cigarettes between his smirking lips. “Bit of a steamer today, isn’t it?”

Steve rolled his eyes, barely managing to hide them behind the rag he had dug out of his back pocket. “Sure is,” he panted. “It’d probably go a lot quicker if it were all hands on deck.” It was a pointed jab at Brock, seeing as how he hadn’t raised anything but a cigarette to his mouth over the course of the day. Steve still wasn’t quite sure why he was there. Clint hadn’t mentioned him coming and the look of irritation that had crossed his face when he’d pulled up told Steve that Clint didn’t want him there anymore than he did.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Rogers?” Brock snarled.

“Nothing,” he lied. He was too tired to argue with the man that Y/N’s father was hell bent on setting her up with. 

“No,” Brock argued, going so far as to stab a finger in Steve’s chest. “You’ve had a problem with me from the start, and I know it has everything to do with a certain Ross daughter. Oh boy, wait until Thaddeus finds out.” 

Steve cut a glare at Brock. “Don’t push me, Rumlow,” he warned, hands balling into fists at his side, his anger fueled by heat exhaustion and dehydration. 

“Or what? You gonna hit me?” Brock laughed dangerously low. “Come on then. What’s dear old daddy gonna do when he finds out that you attacked me, the guy that’s going to marry Y/N?” As if in preparation, Brock flicked his still lit cigarette over Steve.

Steve followed the cigarette as it arched through the air, embers of red and orange spinning off, a shout of “what are you doing” caught in his throat. It bounced on the hard dirt, heading straight toward the tractor he had been working on earlier that day. That was when time seemed to stop. 

While Brock started laughing, obviously thinking Steve was turning chicken, Steve spun on his heel and raced toward the discarded cigarette as it rolled straight into a pool of gasoline. The gasoline caught flame, and it only took a few seconds for it to spread, the sudden breeze giving it life. 

The explosion was deafening, like the crack of thunder as it struck a tree. Steve’s ears exploded, an immediate ringing filling his head, bright, hot, orange light blinding him, an unbelievable, intense heat surrounding him, burning him. He felt the world tilt on its axis as hell rained down around him.


	4. Branded As Trouble

You were half asleep at your desk when your world literally blew apart. The explosion rocked the guest house, the windows rattling. You shot out of your desk, feet pounding on the hardwood floors, the door left standing open as you flew out of it, sprinting around the side of the house. You slid to a stop, frozen in place, watching the thick black smoke rising into the sky, flames popping and crackling, so hot you could feel it a hundred yards away.

“Oh my God,” you moaned, fear turning your blood to ice.

There was a pile of burning metal in the middle of the gravel drive, the source of the intense heat. Horses were neighing, kicking at their stall doors as the flames licked at the stable. There were people everywhere, running everywhere, the air rich with panic, people yelling, screaming, crying. You saw your father running toward the fire, heard his shouted orders, soot covering his face and arms. You didn’t see Steve.

You took off at a run, screaming Steve’s name, trying - and failing - to look everywhere at once. You circled the burning tractor, at least you suspected it was the tractor, the old one that was constantly breaking down. Lying on the far side of the tractor, on his belly, was a man with dirty blond hair, not breathing, at least not that you could see, if he was, it was so shallow you couldn’t see his back rising and falling. You fell to your knees beside him, rolling him over, but it wasn’t Steve, it was Clint, his eyes rolling back in his head, deep coughs leaving him, blood pouring from his ears. Part of you sagged in relief, but the fear was still there. You called for help, holding Clint’s head in your lap. Scott appeared at your side a few seconds later, pulling Clint from your arms. 

“Scott, where is Steve?” you shouted.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Last time I saw him he was running toward the tractor.”

You pushed yourself to your feet, turning in circles, desperately looking for Steve. You pushed past the people gathering with hoses and buckets, trying to douse the flames before they reached the stable and the horses. 

That was when you saw him, leaning against the barn, head down, blood leaking from his ear, cuts and scrapes covering every inch of visible skin, black singed holes all over his jeans and shirt, his face looking as if he’d been pummeled. You took off at a run, screaming his name, launching yourself into his arms, the tears now pouring down your face. He winced, stumbling back a few steps, but he didn’t let go of you, his arms around you, crushing you, holding you so tight you couldn’t breathe. You didn’t care. You weren’t ever leaving his arms again.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured. “I’m okay.”

“Jesus Christ,” you sobbed. “I thought you were dead, Steve. I-I c-couldn’t find you, and then, I saw Clint laying there -”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” He kissed your cheek, your chin, your closed eyelids, finally landing on your lips.

Leave it to Steve to apologize for nearly dying. God, he was the most selfless, amazing man you had ever met. You returned the kiss, desperate to remind yourself that he was alive, that he was there, holding you, and he was in one piece.

“You jerk,” you half cried, half giggled when you finally separated. “If you had died, I would have killed you.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, the laugh turning to a groan. He set you on your feet and propped himself against the wall, sliding down to rest on his haunches, his brow furrowed, eyes slightly glazed, lips tight, shoulders hunched. He was in pain and you were making jokes.

“You’re not okay,” you said, crouching down beside him.

“I’m not okay,” he mumbled just before he slumped over, unconscious.

* * *

Sleep was elusive, not that you could have slept, not when Steve was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, every wire imaginable attached to him. You were sustaining yourself on watered down hospital coffee, soda, and disgusting sandwiches from the vending machine down the hall. If it wasn’t for Steve’s best friend, Bucky, you probably wouldn’t be eating anything. He would stay with Steve while you paid the vending machines a visit, the five minutes you were gone from the room almost too much to handle.

Steve was in and out of consciousness and you had no intention of being gone from the room when he was awake, even if it was only for a few minutes. The concussion he’d suffered was severe, along with his burst eardrum, and the multiple lacerations. He’d been thrown more than ten feet when the tractor exploded, landing in a pile of hay bales, blacking out for several minutes. He’d only been on his feet a few seconds when you’d found him.

Clint was in a room down the hall, but unlike Steve, he had not regained consciousness. His wife, Wanda, had not left his side. The two of you had crossed paths several times, meeting at the vending machines, and your heart had nearly broken for her. The doctors couldn’t tell her anything, they weren’t even sure Clint would wake up and if he did, what condition he would be in.

The day after Steve was admitted, he was finally fully awake. You were sitting beside his bed, a book in your hands, music playing quietly from your phone, not really reading, mostly staring at the pages, sleeping with your eyes open, when your name was whispered from your left. You leapt of the chair so quickly that your book hit the floor.

“Hi,” he murmured.

“Hi.” You fought back tears of relief, pushing down your emotions, doing your best to keep yourself calm. You took his face in your hands and pressed a kiss to his lips, brushing a thumb over the bruise on the side of his face.

“Don’t cry.” He shifted, grabbed your hand, and squeezed. “I’m alive.”

You nodded and wiped the tears from your cheeks. You pulled the chair over as close to the bed as possible, sat down with your feet tucked beneath you and Steve’s hand in yours. You spent the next hour answering all of Steve’s questions - how were the horses, how much damage had the buildings sustained, who else had been hurt, and what seemed like a million more. He explained what happened, Brock’s cigarette carelessly tossed aside, igniting the gasoline pooled beneath the tractor. He quizzed you until he could barely keep his eyes open. He finally fell asleep, turned on his side, facing you, your hand clutched in his.

* * *

Bucky had finally convinced you to go home for a few hours, sleep, take a shower, and maybe get some real food in your body. Since Steve was fully awake and functioning, you’d agreed. Betty met you at the door, a plate of food and a beer in her hands. She hugged you, tighter than she’d ever hugged you before.

“You should have told me,” she scolded, leading you to the living room and urging you to sit down before she handed you the food and drink.

“I know,” you sighed. “But I didn’t tell anybody.”

“Because of Daddy?” Betty asked.

You nodded, your stomach lurching at the thought of your father. You were going to have to face him, sooner rather than later, something you were not looking forward to, dreading it in fact. You forced yourself to eat the sandwich and take a few sips of the cold beer, even though you weren’t feeling very hungry.

Betty cleared her throat when the last of your food was gone. “He’s been waiting for you,” your sister said. “I’m pretty sure he would have gone to the hospital if I hadn’t stopped him. That was a fight I do not care to relive.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes I did,” she stood firm. “Steve didn’t need him screaming at you in the hospital. And neither did you.”

“Betty!” your father roared. “Is that your sister?”

“Kind of like that,” she sighed.

You handed the half full bottle of beer to your sister, pushed your hair off of your face, and yourself to your feet. “It’s me, Daddy!” you shouted. You pointed at the door on the opposite side of the room that led to a back hallway and mouthed ‘go.’ For once, Betty didn’t argue, just got up and walked away, shaking her head and mumbling under her breath.

General Ross strode through the door a minute later, fists clenched, brow furrowed, looking as if he was about to spit hellfire. You took a deep breath and waited for the yelling to start.

“Do you have something to tell me?” He came to a stop in front of you, arms crossed, his face unreadable.

“Probably not anything you haven’t already figured out,” you shrugged.

“Rogers?” he asked.

“He’s okay,” you said. “Tired, in pain, but also worried about the ranch, of course.”

“Probably more worried that I’ll fire his ass,” Ross scoffed. “Which is exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Why, Daddy?” You were barely containing your anger, the need to lash out at your father nearly overwhelming you. “Because he broke your archaic rule about dating a Ross daughter?”

“Oh, that’s just one of the reasons,” he smirked. “He almost cost us everything. We were lucky to get the fire out before it reached the stables. A tractor exploded, a tractor that he’d been working on -”

“It wasn’t his fault,” you snapped. “It was Brock’s.”

“I doubt that,” your father said. “Steve’s just trying to save his job. This is over, Y/N. You will stop seeing him. Period.”

He was almost out of the room before you spoke up. “I love him, Daddy.”

The general stopped in his tracks, his back ramrod straight. “What did you say?”

“I love him,” you repeated. “And I will not stop seeing him.”

Ross spun around, his eyes shooting daggers. “You don’t love him. You can’t.”

“Oh, I do,” you nodded. “And I’m done following your stupid rules.”

Your father dragged in a deep breath, his fists clenched at his sides. “This is not open for discussion, young lady. Break it off, today, and we’ll forget you ever said anything.”

“I’ll leave,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

“You won’t. If you walk out that door, I will cut you off, no job, no money, no place to live. Think on that for a while. You and your cowboy boyfriend won’t get very far on nothing. I’ll make sure of it.” He scratched a hand against the side of his face. “I’m done talking about this. You will do as I say.”

You waited until you heard the slam of the back door leading out to the guest house before moving, sprinting down the hall to your room. You threw bags and clothes on the bed. It wouldn’t take you long to pack. Just a few minutes. You’d be gone before the general could figure out what you were doing.

You were done taking orders from your father.


	5. Taming Steve

 

“How’s Clint doing?” you asked as soon as Steve hung up the phone.

“Angry, hurt, pissed, and out for blood,” Steve said. “As one would expect after losing your hearing in an accident that never should have happened, an accident that could have been prevented.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and sat beside you on the couch, his arm sliding around your shoulder.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” you replied, a little too quickly.

“Liar,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “It’s been two weeks since you talked to the General. Do you want to call him?”

“No,” you snapped.

“Hey, easy,” Steve murmured. “I was only kidding.”

You sighed, turning in his arms so you could lay your head on his chest. Steve kissed the top of your head, his hand rubbing circles on your back. It had been more than three weeks since the explosion at the ranch, but the aftereffects were a burden that would be carried for a long time. Steve had recovered, though he sometimes suffered from debilitating migraines due to the severity of the concussion he’d suffered. Clint had lost his hearing in both ears and would have to wear hearing aids for the rest of his life, not to mention the multiple surgeries to repair his lacerated liver, as well as some memory loss. There had been several other ranch hands injured in the explosion and one horse had been lost. And you, well you’d walked away from your family, from your entire life. Not that you regretted it for one minute.

“What time are you meeting with the insurance inspector?” you asked.

“Noon,” he replied.

“I’m coming with you,” you said. 

“You don’t have to,” he shook his head. “I can go on my own.”

“I’m not letting you face my father alone,” you replied. “You and me, together, right?”

“Right,” he grinned, taking your hand in his, his thumb and forefinger twisting the diamond and sapphire ring on your left hand. “Are you sure that’s what you want, Y/N? A broke, jobless cowboy who can’t give you the life you’re used to?”

You turned in his arms, staring up into his bright blue eyes, the color of the sapphire ring on your finger. You couldn’t have been more surprised when he’d proposed, slipping the ring on your finger early one morning after a long night of love making.

“I don’t care about any of that, Steve,” you murmured. “I only care about you and the life we can build together. All the money in the world can’t make me as happy as you make me.” You kissed the underside of his jaw, your hand slipping beneath the blue work shirt, your fingers dancing over his tight muscles.

Steve growled low in the back of his throat, his hands under your arms, dragging you up his body. He caught your lips in his, kissing you with a fervor, as if it had been weeks, months since he’d touched you, instead of hours. In one quick move, he had you on your back, his thigh between your legs, pressed against the apex of your thighs, heat instantly flooding you.

“I need you out of these clothes,” he demanded, pushing your shirt up your chest, his lips trailing after it, kissing your exposed skin before taking your breast in his mouth, suckling it through the thin lace bra covering you.

You moaned, grabbed the hem of your shirt, and ripped it over your head. Your bra was next, tossed somewhere over your shoulder. You fell back onto the couch, arching your back, gasping as Steve pulled your breast into his mouth, kneading the other gently, his fingers plucking lightly at the nipple.

He released you long enough for you to wiggle out of your jeans, kicking them to the floor, then he was back between your legs, his fingers twisting in your underwear, pulling them down a little bit. He slid to his knees beside the couch and leaned over you, his tongue dancing along your hips, across your stomach, dipping into your belly button, then back down to the apex of your thighs, mouthing at your still covered pussy, making you squirm.

“Steve, stop teasing,” you gasped.

Your underwear hit the floor seconds later, his head was between your legs and he was greedily licking you, quiet grunts of pleasure coming from him. He wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking it into his mouth as he pushed two fingers inside of you, moving them in a come hither motion that had you clutching at the back of his head, your legs falling open, and obscene sounds coming from your mouth. Steve slid his hand beneath you, lifting you until his mouth was completely covering you, his tongue, his lips, and his fingers moving together in unimaginable ways. Fire pooled in the depths of your stomach, heat flickering through every nerve ending, until you felt like you were shattering into pieces, the orgasm rocketing through you. 

You moaned his name as you came, fingers digging into the cushions of the couch, Steve pushing you right up to the edge, over and over, wringing every last drop of pleasure from you until you were lying on the couch, spent.

Steve crawled up your body, pulling his clothes off as he moved, stopping every couple of inches to kiss you, finally stopping at your lips, the taste of you still on his tongue. He rolled you to your side, pressing you against the back of the couch, pulled your leg over his hip, and slowly entered you, pressing in deep with one hard thrust, his hips pumping, his lips moving over your shoulders, your neck, your jaw. You wrapped your arms around him, your nails digging into his shoulders, fresh screams of ecstasy falling from your lips. He tangled his fingers in your hair, tipping your head back, kissing you even as he pounded into you, deeper and harder with every thrust until you were both coming.

Steve released you with a deep groan, one hand over his eyes, a smile on his face.

“You okay?” you giggled.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I’m good. Really, really good.” He kissed the tip of your nose. “Definitely getting used to having you here all the time.”

“Yeah?” you said. “Well, that’s good because you’re stuck with me now.”

“Good,” he whispered, pulling you back into his arms, “I want to be stuck with you forever.”

* * *

“Mr. Rogers, thanks for meeting with me,” Jasper Sitwell said, shaking Steve’s hand and then Y/N’s. He was the man assigned by the insurance company to investigate the fire and this was the second time they’d met. The first time had been while Steve was still in the hospital, three days after the fire, dealing with the aftermath of his injuries, his concussion, and finding out that Y/N had walked away from her entire life for him. This time he was sitting in the man’s office, his hat in his hand, staring at a group of photographs hanging on the wall behind his desk, Y/N in a chair beside him.

Sitwell took a seat, shuffled some papers around, and cleared his throat. “I thought General Ross was going to be here, but it looks like he’s not going to make it.” He cleared his throat again. “Talk to me about Brock Rumlow.”

Steve sat up straighter, surprised that Rumlow’s name had come up. When he’d tried to talk about Brock and his cigarette the first time around, Sitwell had kept bringing the conversation back around to him and the fact that he’d been fixing the tractor the night before it exploded, his questions not so subtly hinting that he believed Steve to be responsible.

“Rumlow?” Steve asked.

“Yes, Brock Rumlow,” Sitwell said.

“I told you last time, Mr. Sitwell, Rumlow threw a lit cigarette, which landed in a puddle of gasoline under the tractor that was being repaired. That’s what caused the explosion and the fire.” He shifted in his seat. “Why are you asking?”

“I’ve talked to a few other people that were there the day of the explosion and every one of them indicated that Mr. Rumlow was on site, not working, but on site. They also mentioned that he’s a chain smoker, so it’s possible that the story you told me -”

“It wasn’t a story,” Steve snapped. “It was the truth.”

“Yes, Mr. Rogers, so you’ve said,” Sitwell said. “Which is what I’m trying to get to, the truth. Tell me again what happened.”

Steve went through it again, every second, from the minute he stepped off the tractor to waking up in the hospital. He explained, for what felt like the millionth time, how the tractor that was being repaired was parked next to the stables, how he knew it was leaking gasoline, which was why he hadn’t taken it out in the fields. He told Sitwell about the argument with Brock, the cigarette, one of many, carelessly thrown away, how he’d tried to stop it, even though he knew he couldn’t, the explosion, the pain, his fear, all of it. He was sweating by the time he finished.

Sitwell was nodding, scribbling something on the papers on his desk. “Thank you, Mr. Rogers, I really appreciate your help.” He pushed himself to his feet, repeating the handshakes from earlier. “I’ll be in touch.”

Steve took Y/N’s hand, leading her out the door. The were almost out of the building when they heard a loud voice calling her name. They turned to see Brock striding toward them.

“Y/N!” he yelled. “Long time, no see.” He stopped in front of them, an irritating smirk on his face.

“That was the intention,” Y/N smiled. “What are you doing here, Brock?”

“That Sitwell guy wants to talk to me,” he shrugged. “Probably needs my help getting Steve here fired for setting the ranch on fire.” A nasty chuckle left him.

“Fuck you, Brock,” Steve muttered.

“When are you going to stop this childish game, Y/N? When are you going to realize this guy can’t give you a fraction of what I can?” Brock said.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she didn’t respond right away, just stepped closer to Steve, all the answer Brock needed. Steve’s arm slipped around her waist. She held her hand up, the ring on her finger flashing in the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

“He gives me everything I need,” she grinned.

Brock’s face fell, his eyes dropping into an angry squint. He opened his mouth to say god-knew-what, but just then Sitwell called his name from his open door. Brock pushed past them, stalking down the hallway and through the door.

“Let’s go,” Steve said. “I need a drink.”

* * *

It was your favorite bar, the one you and Steve frequented the most, hitting it up almost every weekend when you’d been sneaking around behind your father’s back. It was a bar you knew your father would never step foot in; it was beneath him. So, that’s where you’d gone after the two of you left Sitwell’s office, after the confrontation with Brock.

“He’s going to tell your father,” Steve said.

“I do not care,” you replied. “Let him tell Daddy. He should know his oldest daughter is getting married.”

Steve chuckled and shook his head. “You’re right, he should. Though I don’t think he’ll be happy with your choice of husbands.”

You leaned into his side, put your hand on his cheek and kissed him soundly on the lips. “Again, I do not care. I love you, cowboy. Come hell or high water.”

“I love you, too,” Steve whispered.

“Well, isn’t this a lovely picture?” the all too familiar voice echoed through the bar.

Your father was standing just inside the bar door, his face red with anger. He pushed his way through the lunch crowd, roughly shoving people out of his way, until he came to a stop in front of you and Steve.

“You’re marrying him?” your father shouted.

The bar had gone dead silent, everyone uncomfortable with the family drama suddenly playing out in front of them. Everyone did their best to look anywhere but your direction.

You started to rise to your feet, but Steve put a hand on your arm, shook his head, and stood up. He rose to his full height, his fists clenched at his sides. He stepped between you and your father. 

“Yes, General Ross, she is marrying me,” Steve said. “For some reason I’ll never understand, she loves me enough to want to marry me.”

“You’ll get nothing from me,” Thaddeus growled, looking between you and Steve. “Not a dime.”

“When are you going to realize I don’t want it,” you murmured. “I don’t want your money and everything that goes with it. I don’t want anything from you. I’d rather be destitute than take a dime from you. All I need is Steve.” You reached up, your fingers intertwining with his, your engagement ring clearly on display.

“You...You’re  _ my _  daughter -” Thaddeus stammered.

“Not anymore,” you sighed. “I’m not your daughter anymore.” You were tired, tired of all of it. You wanted to be left alone to live your life. “Just, leave me alone General. Leave us alone.”

Your father opened his mouth to say something, but Steve put a hand on his chest. “You heard her, General. Leave us alone.”

Dejected, your father turned and left the bar without another word. A smattering of applause broke out, bringing a smile to your face. Your father was probably one of the most hated men in the valley and you and Steve had just stood up to him, something not many people had done, at least not in your lifetime. It felt good to be one of the first.

Steve sat down, his hand on your back, rubbing it gently. You leaned against him, needing him. He was your world now.

* * *

“It will be small, just us, Bucky, Natasha, the Bartons, my sister, maybe a few other friends, but that’s it,” you explained.

“You’re okay with small?” Steve grinned. “You don’t want some huge fairy tale wedding?”

“Um, no,” you giggled, kissing his cheek. “This will be perfect.”

Steve’s ringing phone interrupted your wedding discussion; you watched him as he stepped outside to take it, his face suddenly serious, contemplative. You knew he was worried, worried that he didn’t have a job, worried how the two of you would survive with no income, worried about giving you everything you wanted and needed. No amount of reassurance from you was enough. It seemed as if every door was being slammed in his face, over and over again.

He stepped back inside a few minutes later and scooped his keys off the kitchen table. “Come on, we have to go,” he said.

“Where?” you asked as you grabbed one of his old sweatshirts and tugged it over your head.

“To see Bartholomew Rumlow,” Steve replied. “He wants to talk to me. To us.”

“Why does Rumlow want to see us?” you inquired. “And why are we going? It’s probably just more of the same bullshit. Poor innocent Brock is being persecuted, leave him alone. Blah, blah, blah.”

“I don’t think that’s it at all,” Steve shook his head. “At least that’s not what he said. I think we should see what he wants.”

“Okay,” you shrugged, though you still didn’t think it was such a great idea. Bartholomew Rumlow was unpredictable, prone to just about anything. He came from old money, he’d bought the ranch on a whim one day when he’d been in the state visiting a friend from college. He’d divorced his wife, married a woman half his age, then divorced her, all in an eight month time span; you never knew what the man was going to do.

The drive to Rumlow Ranch was a short one, quiet, both you and Steve lost in your own thoughts. He held your hand as the two of you walked up the steps to the front door and rang the doorbell. Thirty seconds later the door opened.

Bartholomew “Bart” Rumlow was a handsome man, black hair graying at the temples, strong jaw, rugged good looks. He welcomed you both with a hearty hello, shaking first your hand, then Steve’s, his grip strong, reassuring.

“Follow me,” he ordered, turning and striding down through the foyer and into a mahogany paneled office to the left of the front door. He gestured for both of you to sit on a green leather couch against the wall.

The Bartons, Clint and Wanda, were there as well, Wanda sitting in an overstuffed chair while Clint stood beside her. He was clutching a notebook and a pen in his hand, his new hearing aids on both ears. You hugged both of them, whispering your hellos in Wanda’s ear.

It took you a second to notice Brock sitting in the corner of the room, a scowl on his face. You had just turned to ask Bartholomew why he had asked you there when your father walked through the door, followed by Jasper Sitwell. Steve squeezed your hand, and dragged you to the couch, pulling you down beside him, his arm around your waist, holding you in place, even though you were vibrating with anger.

“Alright,” Bart Rumlow said, clapping his hands together, “I really appreciate everyone being here. First of all, I’m really sorry for all the trouble y’all have experienced recently. I feel responsible, at least in part, because my offspring appears to be the responsible party.” He shot a glare Brock’s direction. “Mr. Sitwell.” He nodded at the insurance adjuster.

Sitwell stepped forward, clearing his throat and pulling at the edge of his collar. “It’s been determined that the explosion at the Ross Ranch was caused by a discarded cigarette igniting a puddle of gasoline beneath one of the ranch’s tractors. It appears that cigarette belonged to Brock.”

It looked like Brock might be thinking of protesting, but his father cut him off with another look. “Thaddeus, we’ll be paying for whatever repairs are needed above and beyond what the insurance takes care of and Clint, all of your hospital bills are going to be taken care of, as well as anything else you might need. Same with you Steve.”

Brock grunted from the corner, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Did you have a comment, Brock?” his father raised his voice. “Because we have discussed this, repeatedly. You almost got people killed because of your reckless, stupid behavior. And Clint lost his hearing because of you. All because you were acting like a spoiled brat trying to get the girl.”

“You’re giving away my inheritance!” Brock shouted.

“You’re lucky I’m not cutting you off completely,” Bart snapped. “Maybe this will wake your ass up. I’m done making excuses for you. People almost died. I can’t stand by and let this behavior continue. I am done. And this conversation is over, do you understand?” 

Brock looked like he was trying to bite his tongue in half, but he didn’t make another sound, just stared at the ground, a petulant pout on his face.

“And Steve, I understand you are currently unemployed?” Bart said.

Your father’s head shot up when he heard that, a scowl on his face.

“Yes, sir,” Steve nodded.

“I’d like to hire you, then,” Bart replied. “I understand you’re one of the best ranch foreman in the state. I could use a man like you. What do you say?”

“What about Clint?” Steve asked, pointing at his friend.

“Well, I think Clint’s going to need an assistant, seeing as how I just bought a large tract of land north of a the property. We’re going to be pretty busy.” He dropped to the chair behind his desk, hands folded on top of it. “So, what do you say?”

“I say, yes,” Steve smiled, rising to his feet so he could shake Bart’s hand. “Hell, yes.”

Your father let out an irritated breath, threw open the door, and left. A few seconds later, you heard the Rumlow’s front door slam closed. Of course your father couldn’t be happy for you and Steve; his plan had probably been to make sure Steve stayed unemployed so you’d come crying back to him. You hated thinking your father was that vindictive, but if the last few weeks had taught you anything, it was that your father wanted to control everyone and everything around him, including his children.

Your thoughts were interrupted by Bart calling an end to the meeting, Brock stomping from the room, his boot heels clicking on the hardwood floors, and Sitwell saying his goodbyes. Everything had happened so fast you felt like your head was spinning. You clung to Steve’s arm as he talked to Bart, the two of them discussing business. You could tell by the questions Steve was asking how excited he was to be able to go back to work.

“Thank you, Mr. Rumlow,” Steve said. “You don’t understand what this means to me. To us.”

“I think I do, son,” Bart chuckled, winking at you. “I’m happy to help.” He shook Steve’s hand and yours, then he walked you to the door.

Steve waited until the two of you were in his truck before he let out a loud whoop and pulled you into his arms. You laughed, your arms around his neck, peppering his face with kisses.

“Looks like your fiance just got a job,” he chuckled.

“Good,” you said. “It’s hard to take care of a wife and baby with no job.”

“What?” Steve’s hands dropped to his side, his blue eyes wide with shock.

You took his hand and placed it flat on your stomach, a smile on your face. “Baby,” you repeated.

The next whoop was even louder than the first had been. Steve crushed you to his chest, kissing you breathless. He was laughing, tears in his eyes when he finally released you. He rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you, too,” he replied. “Always and forever.”

 


End file.
